ife can ever have. If you
should be taken from me, and if I should still have your picture,
that would be almost the best thing I could have. You see how it
is. If some one should take the picture, I could never get
another that would mean so much to me."

They began to walk up and down the room. The little boy was
clinging to Mother's hand and he kept tangling his pink feet in
the folds of his night dress, while his tearful eyes were fixed
steadfastly upon the earnest face above him.

"Mother!" he suddenly called out, "where's my scrap-book?"

David had found a way. He and Mother hurried to the bookcase. In
great haste they rummaged the shelves; magazines were pushed
aside; pamphlets and papers were pushed aside--Good! Here it was,
that scrapbook. Wild with excitement David began thumbing the
pages; he laughed; he tore some of the leaves. Then he pounced
down upon his chief treasure, a picture which Mitch Horrigan had
wanted to buy with some strips of tin, a broken Jew's harp, and a
wad of shoemaker's wax.

A great masterpiece, this. To the eyes of childhood nothing could
be more beautiful. It was a pink and pensive cow with a slight
clerical expression, a very dignified animal, caught in the act
of sedately skipping the rope.

"Splendid!" Mother exclaimed.

"Yes," David answered, gasping with relief. Then he chuckled in
triumph, and Mother did, too. When the picture had been detached
from the page the little boy held it tenderly in his hands.
Nothing must happen to it until it could be used in making things
right with the Doctor.

There had been so much excitement over the cow, so much delight
over securing a sacrifice to take the place of the Broken Lady,
that when Mother began to dress her little boy she imagined that
all thought of trousers had gone from him. But it was not so.
With prompt disfavor he regarded the blue suit of kilts edged
with lacy braid, and although there was reluctance in Mother's
heart, she began to look for the missing knickerbockers.

Every mother must come to it. She must help us tug and pull at
the clumsy things even if there comes something to tug and pull
at her heart. What matter if there be a voice within her that is
crying out to the child of yesterday to linger yet a little
longer in the dear winsomeness that will so soon be gone? Call as
you will, poor mother; your boy will not heed you now, for the
way to manhood is long to travel, and we men-children cannot wait
until